The Demon's Music
by vikymarvel
Summary: AltMal, !DemonMalik. Altaïr always had run-ins with trouble. When his life becomes relatively peaceful, he feels something is missing. Along comes Malik, a mysterious, handsome man who takes an interest in him. Rated M just to be safe, although M content will be fade to black, mostly.
1. Dreams and Fantasies

**AN: The inspiration for this thing came from the many beautiful AltaïrMalik drawings in the gallery of DeviantArt user ~allahdammit. I'm not sure where I want to go with this but I do have a couple of ideas. This is just a little somethin' somethin' to start off. Enjoy!**

* * *

_He was on top of a plateau, overlooking an endless plain. A slight breeze caught in his hair, against his skin. Aside from th__at, there was nothing. No sound, no touch, nothing else stimulating his senses. It was mildly uncomfortable, but familiar. Familiar as his own body, as everything else he knew. What did he know? It...slipped his mind. It seemed all he knew, was this empty plateau overlooking an endless plain._

Altaïr was torn awake with the feeling of being suffocated. Sitting up instantly, he remained still and tried to relax, taking uneven breaths. Once he had partially calmed down, he glance at his alarm clock, with creased eyebrows. He already knew the answer. Not even dawn yet; his room was pitch black. Only quiet outside save for the occasional car. He cursed the world and grumpily got up. He wasn't falling asleep again.

It was that dream again. Whenever he thought he was done with it, it came back. When it did, it stuck around for a week or so, totally wrecking his sleep cycles. This was his third night. He had no idea of the cause. He had been told it was probably because of a traumatic experience, a remark to which he simply laughed. A cynical laugh, because yeah, his life had been pretty messed up. Enough to warrant a weird, recurring dream? Sure.

He opened his fridge, scanned for something interesting. Leftover takeout and beer. Perfect. He took it out and sprawled everything on his table. He wasn't as big on alcohol as people might have thought, but in these times, he needed it. Beer was fine; he steered clear of anything stronger. A moral? No, more like a lesson he'd learned many times.

He noticed the papers piled sloppily on the corner of the table. Bills and notices, constantly reminding him of the tight spot he was in. Ignoring them before the oncoming headache hit home, he shuffled to the living room – which, of course, was also the kitchen! Flopping down on the couch, he grabbed hold of the keyboard leaning on the armrest. Before turning on, he stopped himself. It was still too early for the keyboard. He already had enough complaints from his landlord.

Instead, he went and grabbed his acoustic guitar. As long as he played a soft song, it should be fine. Noise wouldn't go over the thin walls. Strumming a few simple, random chords at first, he ended up playing a ballad. Then he realized what junk he was playing and stopped. Why a ballad? Why the sappiness? He did recognize the song though...It was one of the first songs he'd learned. Trying to impress some girl he thought he had feelings for.

Until he realized, well, what team he was on.

He spent the remaining hours until morning jamming and by the end of it his wrist cramped. Sirens were blaring, cars were honking, the other tenants were walking around...His eyes were bloodshot and he looked like the living dead. Pulling himself up, he grabbed a quick breakfast. He had classes in two hours, but he had a lot of public transit ahead of him to get to them. While he lived downtown, his campus was completely on the other side.

He put his things together, slipped jeans and a hoodie on, stored his keyboard in its case and left the apartment. Earphones blaring to some alternative rock, of course. He pulled the hood over his head. With the hangover face he had, it was best for him and for others. Also, well, throughout his life he'd grown accustomed to trying to blend outside. Hiding in plain sight. Although, wearing red perhaps wasn't the smartest idea if he wanted to be overlooked.

Altaïr's train of thoughts was momentarily thrown off-track as he bumped into someone. It was a man stepping out of his car. He only had time to spot a fancy suit, black and burgundy, before he harshly brushed past the man. ''Get outta the way, man'', he growled and marched on.

''My apologies'', a suave voice replied.

Even as he walked away, Altaïr stalled. Bewildered, maybe? Either way, he turned slightly, peering over his shoulder. The stranger was looking at him. Although, gazing might have been a better word for it. With impenetrable jet eyes and a somewhat arrogant, amused smile. About half a second later, Altaïr just gave the man a weird look and carried on his way. Even then, he could feel the stare on him. Luckily, the corner was just a few steps ahead and line of sight was broken.

_What the Hell was that?_the young man asked himself as he walked. It happened to him now and then that he found a man he found appealing, but this wasn't it. Not that the stranger hadn't been handsome. Not at all. As a matter of fact, while 'businessman' wasn't usually his type, this one had had quite an effect on him. Still, it was different. He forced his mind to drift, but he knew this event would be bothering him all day.

* * *

''Are you a fucking idiot? How is rock now better than before?''Altaïr yelled.

''I didn't say 'better', I said more varied.''

Altaïr and Desmond, his fellow college goer, were riding the train back downtown. The two of them were best friends since childhood, despite long periods of lost contact. Desmond was almost like a little brother to him. Often the voice of reason, but most of the time just as big an idiot as his peer. A mix that made him the perfect friend. Though, they mostly spent time together having meaningless arguments like this one. Old versus new rock.

''Oh, piss off. What the Hell's that supposed to mean?''

''It means it has less of the same scratchy guitar solos and old men with bears yelling like they've got something stuck in their throats.''

''Oh, oh, because singing like someone just squeezed your damn balls is better.''

Desmond looked at him with a dubious look, then chuckled.

''You don't even know what you're talking about, Altaïr.''

''Neither do you!'', he replied, shaking his head. ''Eh, at least you're better than Shaun. Don't ever let me catch you listening to his new age records. Shit gets me all freaked out, man.''

''Lay off. Y'know, as a DJ, you should be more open to different styles.''

''I'm as open to any style as the next guy, as long as it's got soul.''

Altaïr proceeded to sing 'Old Time Rock and Roll' with a forced throaty voice. Desmond laughed before switching to begging his friend to stop. People in the subway were starting to stare. Ok no, they were staring even before, shortly after the start of their argument. For all Altaïr did to stay incognito when he was alone, it was a different story with his friends around. He became a regular loud-mouthed, obnoxious hoodlum.

His soft laugh dying off, Altaïr stared out of the window to the dark tunnel. Before long, the thought of the man in the suit popped up in his mind. Again. He frowned and discarded the thought, focusing on his schedule for the night. Go home and eat. Then, he had to be at the club half-an hour before opening, so ten thirty. He had until eleven to set up, then it was work all through the night. Or at least, until the last drunkard had been rolled out, at about five in the morning. Walk back to the apartment, sleep for a few hours and then school. At least, tomorrow was Friday, so he'd recuperate soon.

Desmond got off at his station, bidding him goodbye for the day. Altaïr waved at him, before putting on his earphones. One of the few sappy songs he had in his repertory started and he angrily skipped it. First the ballad earlier today, now this. The world was taunting him or something. Just when he met that guy, too. Against his own will, he let his mind drift to the stranger yet again, this time not even bothering to antagonize himself over it. Altaïr was hot for him and wanted to fantasize a little. It was about time he manned up and just admitted it.

After a while, his eyelids began drooping, his head nodding every so often. He was exhausted after the night he had spent. He tried to keep himself awake: missing his stop was not an option. Unfortunately, he soon dozed off.

_The same plateau, overlooking the wide, empty plain. The sun was shining bright, his skin prickly from the persistent heat. Persistent? Since when had this place been hot? Where did the breeze go? The heat was coming from a concise place, and it was getting worse and worse, making him itch and squirm. Instead of suffocating, his breath hitched and shuddered. There was no one else but him, but he could hear a deep voice, and the image of someone appeared to him. _

Altaïr woke up, gulping for air. He realized with relief that he hadn't missed his station, but, he noticed with shame that he now had a little problem to cover up. Blushing deeply, he stood up, bad placed conveniently in front of him. If he could just make it home, he'd be alright.


	2. Getting Physical

**AN: Sorry for the time! Video games and school get in the way, y'know! Thank you to Death Escapist for the review, but also thank you for the favorites! This part is shorter than the first, but I hope it's still good! Forgive me for any mistakes/typos!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Despite what his earlier argument with Desmond may have led on, Altaïr didn't dislike all new music genres. If he did, he wouldn't be working as a DJ in a nightclub. He enjoyed techno and punk, for good measure, while he added his own touch to it. Sometimes, for example, he mixed the old with the new. Occasionally, he just mixed in his own creations. He had his signature, and it drew a big crowd. For a middle-row club anyway.

His trade was mainly why he always carried a keyboard around. He didn't play per se, he just toyed with the sound/noise tool, testing things out and recording. It was mostly just playing around, though; the real mixing he did with an actual adequate program. As for the guitar, it was simply his personal hobby. He liked music in general. It soothed him, kept his mind off other things. It was his first outlet for every negative emotion out there.

Tonight, as usual, the house was packed. Regulars and a few curious people here for the first time. On a platform, slightly above the crowd, Altaïr mixed tracks, using his 'known hits'. He was too tired to break out something original. Tired, and distracted altogether. The feedback remained positive, the crowd lively and loud. It'd become a rave a bit later, in the little hours. That often happened, and it got scary at times.

The club wasn't amongst the most trendy, while it wasn't completely outdated either. The inside wasn't impressive, with a concise dance floor and modest furniture. What saved it was the location; right in the middle of downtown, and the music. The crowd was always varied, be it by age or position. College students, high schoolers with fake Ids and parents in their mid-life crisis alike were found. Today was no different.

_What's he doing in here? _From where he stood, he could see over the heads and to the entrance door. The man he'd bumped into was there, garbed in his suit. Their eyes met. Rather, the visitor clearly sought Altaïr out. He smiled a bit smugly before disappearing in the mass of people. After a while, Altaïr realized he was staring off into space and clumsily returned to his task.

Altaïr found himself searching for the stranger against his better judgement. Whenever he became engrossed enough in Djing to do it absent-mindedly, he let his eyes scan over the crowd. So much that the music he played constantly jumped and broke. Eventually, grunts and whines of irritation began to spread, snapping him out of his daze. _Aw shit, Matt isn't gonna be happy, _he thought sourly. To make matters worse, he'd just spotted his mystery man buying a young woman a drink.

Oh well. His fantasy of playing nooky with his tall, dark and handsome stranger would never come to light. Altaïr had gotten the wrong impression, apparently. The way mister X had stared at him that morning had him believing he swung his way. Then away, maybe he swung both! While Altaïr absorbed himself in his wishful thinking, the music once again went downhill. That's when the burly frame of his boss, the aforementioned Matt, appeared and approached. His eyes were shooting daggers.

''You better clean up your act, Altaïr, or you're out for the night, no pay.''

''Got someone to replace me?''

Matt mistook his question for a challenge and replied with a threatening tone:

''I sure do, and-''

''Alright, then I'm gone. Sorry, Matt, but I'm not feeling it tonight. Be here tomorrow.''

''You little shit...Get outta here fast.''

''Aww shucks! You're the best, man!''Altaïr exclaimed over-enthusiastically.

He knew it got under his boss' skin. He smiled and worked his way through the begrudged crowd. The cold, night air hit him like a slap in the face, as soon as he stepped outside. He remembered how hot it was in the club, because of all the people in the confined space, but also because of his little boy crush. He used that wording specifically to make fun of himself, seeing as really, he was acting like a middle-school on this one.

He sighed, looking up at the sky, exasperated. Time to go home, he thought, as if that was the problem. As he began walking, he heard the door of the club opening, with the sound of cooing and giggling. Altaïr stopped and turned to see the cause of the noise. He wished he hadn't.

The stranger was leaving the bar with two girls dangling on his arms, one of which he'd bought a drink to earlier. Altaïr stared without even realizing, while the other went on without a care. Until the man passed him and said:

''Good show, tonight.''

The women cackled loudly as the man walked away. Altaïr, on the other hand, was glued into place. A part of him wanted to punch the man's lights out, and another wanted to ravage him. Or be ravaged. Or punch him then have his way with him. Both could work together. In the end, he only managed to reach out and snap:

''Hey, wait.''

The man and his bimbos – they had to be - stopped. He looked back at Altaïr, while the student wracked his brain for what to say next. He hadn't planned for much further than this. Well, besides his little fantasy. He just hoped his embarrassment didn't show on his face. It obviously did, since the cause of his predicament slowly smirked and outstretched his arms, the girls hanging onto his chest instead.

''What? Care to join in?''

The cackled came again, the girls finding the cocky, mock invitation to be hilarious. Altaïr's face burned, but he didn't avert his eyes. Instead, he could only stare into the stranger's pitch black orbs. It would be cheesy to say he got lost in them, but he did. Hence his utter lack of words or movement. He had to say something, at least to save his pride. And to wipe off that smirk off those lips. Damn, tantalizing lips.

''Well?''came the follow-up.

At that point, the stranger was looking at him somewhat seriously. The women glanced up at him questioningly; since they thought from the beginning he was just joking. Although, none of the two club patrons seemed like they would mind a foursome. They gauged him and smiled teasingly, but he ignored them. He paid attention only to the object of his desire, whom in return had eyes but for him alone. This was all very cinema-worthy. Or not. What did it matter?

_He was being serious? Is he an idiot? Like I'll go off with him and those...drunks._ He was remaining polite by saying 'drunks'. Altaïr looked at the other man more closely and saw the ghost of that same smug expression he'd seen before. He was being played for a fool. This son a bitch was clearly doing this on purpose.

''Bastard.''

His right fist flew square into the man's jaw, sending him staggering back. The girls shrieked and moved away, staring in shock and disbelief at the scene. The stranger, bent forward, wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. Altaïr couldn't tell his expression from his angle, but he guessed it was anger. Like he cared. He walked away, past the asshole and the girls. He heard them huddle around the stranger to help him.

As he speed-walked to his apartment, Altaïr fumed mentally. If he ever saw that guy again, he'd do more than punch him. He was royally pissed, although at himself, surprisingly. For being such a tool. For actually believing for a second that the man had been serious. And for wishing for it.


End file.
